Soldiers of Fortune
by whYFeL
Summary: Stuck in a hunt, one brother stormed out, and another laid out his heart, sort of. A Supernatural take of Deep Purple's 'Soldier of Fortune'.


_**Author's note: **I'm actually scared to post this, but since my Corruptors gave the green light for it, so might as well do it before I change my mind. _

_This is my first major Supernatural fanfic. I do not profit in any way from this, except in the 'pride and ego' department. Standard Disclaimer apply. The songs used/mentioned here are Deep Purple's "Soldier of Fortune", and Kansas' "Dust in the Wind". Dean Winchester owns my heart ever since episode 1.09, "Home". (smiles)_

_Reviews are honoured._

* * *

"_Hey, where you going?"_

_The question didn't halt his movements as he strode towards the motel room door, the key in one hand and his jacket in the other. His frustration didn't manifest itself on his stony face, but it was reflected in his voice._

"_Out," he nearly growled as he wrenched open the door and strode out, letting it fall shut behind him._

_The other man merely stared at the closed door for a second before cursing loudly and raked his hand through his hair. They were both getting more edgy after days of almost non-stop researching and two unsuccessful nights of hunting down their latest case, but he hadn't thought it would eat into his brother as deeply as it seemed tonight. He glanced once more at the various papers strewn over his bed and the closed laptop and winced as he heard the loud screech of __tyres__ from the outside. _

_He sighed ruefully with a shake of his head, knowing even he couldn't continue this tonight, not after all that had happened recently. Screw his Dad's rule – tonight he really needed a break, just this once. "I need a drink."_

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

Tonight was like any other night on any other date.

The dim interior was filled with smoke and furniture that rightfully belong either in antique shops or, in most cases, the dumpster; the loud-mouthed and largely crass people mingling within their respective groupies – some occasional attendants, a few regulars, but mostly those who just felt thirsty or dead beat or both and just happened across this particular joint. It had never been a well-known, high class bar and it never would be, judging by the decreasing number of the locals dropping by looking for any form of distraction away from the harsh realities of their day-to-day existence in this tiny seedy town.

She was well aware of the fact, just as she was used to the somewhat dank atmosphere, the variety of customers and what passed for music played by the listless group of so-called 'band' in the corner just across her counter, up on a raised platform. It had been a similar scene when she first walked in to beg for a job to feed her abusive then-husband and three young mouths 15 years ago. Now, as the sole owner (rest Tim's soul) with grown children who'd mostly done well for themselves and her, the only reasons she held on to the bar were the constant whisper inside her – her conscience, if she could call it that – that told her this place was still needed; plus the occasional kick of seeing new faces cruising in and out the door – and sometimes the excitement that came with it.

The ancient doorbell at the top of the door chimed just as she plonked another tankard in front of old Messy (he still refused to be called by his more respectable real name, Roland, and damn proud of it) and she glanced up to have a look at the newcomer – and to determine whether she had to 'politely' ask him to leave later. She always reckoned herself a good persuader, especially with the aid of the large Remington tucked under the counter, a parting gift from Tim himself (it was in his will, among other things).

What greeted her stirred up the faint, familiar tingle she always got whenever she came near those with very strong emotional turmoil or ecstasy – something she knew she had for a long time but never really acknowledge, not to others anyway. The young man seemed to be late 20-ish, though he carried himself way older. Attractive too, in that 'devil-may-care, mothers beware' kind of ruggedness. She'd bet all her earnings for tonight he'd had more that his fair share of broken hearts, and even now she could see the few female patrons glancing appreciatively over him. Hell, even her youngest daughter, Janice, who'd stubbornly still waitering with her despite her 'suggestions' to find better jobs, gazed unblinking for more than five seconds before returning to clearing her table with a small smile and a hint of a blush. And he, damn him, was aware of the attention, from the faint smirk and confident swagger he'd unconsciously adopted as he went straight to her counter.

She nodded at him as he sat down in the far corner and he nodded back, and again that niggling sensation seeped into her awareness, a bit stronger since he was nearer. She kept her expression neutral as she came over. "What's your poison for tonight?"

He shrugged carelessly, digging into his jacket pocket. "Whatever beer you got, and keep 'em coming."m He pushed a $20 bill towards her.

She took the money and left him, tugging out a new cask from her back room. His words seemed to cement her earlier suspicion of trouble brewing, but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt for the moment.

He downed the first bottle she brought him straight from the chiller, and another, and was now nursing his way through a third – yet he still showed no sign of aggression, so she finally let herself relax, relieved (and perversely a little disappointed) that no fight would happen under her roof tonight. If anything, he'd gotten quieter since his arrival, so the rest of the patrons eventually sort of left him alone. It was getting late anyway, so there weren't that many people left inside at any rate. She'd seen the curious, discreet glances from the girls and one or two of the guys, but he'd seemed oblivious to everything after he got his beer, seeming more intent on whatever thoughts running in his mind. It suited her just fine, since she could give in to her own curiosity and study the young man as she tend to her duties.

Apart from his good looks – he could give a lot of actors a run for their money, she reckoned – he didn't really seem intent on being the centre of any attention right then, from his choice of seat. Clad in a dark shirt, faded jeans and a well-worn leather jacket, he would have passed off as an ordinary traveller looking for some time alone with a quiet drink or three. She kept her hands busy with menial tasks as her eyes strayed from time to time towards him, noting his dark cropped hair, the strange pendant on a black leather thong hanging from his neck, to the shadow that hid most of his bowed face from view. As the door chimed again to signal a large group of new customers coming in, he lazily lifted his head to the band playing God-knew-what at their corner, then swivelled his gaze around slowly as if searching for something. By the time she hollered to Janice to take the drinks to the newcomers, he'd finished his drink and signalled to her for another.

"Your boys can't play a decent song worth their shit," he muttered irritably when she brought over his order. She let it slide, since it was the truth. "No offence, but don't see a jukebox here too."

It was her turn to shrug. "Don't see the need for one. Think you can do better?" She jutted her chin towards the band, unable to resist the temptation to egg him.

He gave her an 'are you kidding me?' look – she could clearly see the hard green eyes now, clouded slightly by the drink and something... _dark_; it made her think of the assuring weight of her gun. Then he suddenly grinned rather impishly (and oh God she wished she was 30 years younger!) as he ran long rough fingers through his hair. "What's in it for me?"

She self-consciously wiped her twitching hands on the rag hanging nearby, hating her suddenly weak knees. "Let's say your drinks are on the house tonight." She took out his $20 from the register and pushed it back to him.

He squinted down at the bill in thought as she stood there steadying her fluttering heart, realising the heavy sensation she'd been feeling from him had lessened somewhat, like he'd deliberately pushed whatever it was aside. Then he snorted and rubbed at his lightly stubbled cheek, picking up his money and jamming it back into his pocket.

"What the hell... deal," he said, smirking and holding out his hand. "Dean."

"Charlie." She shook hands with him, relishing the warm firm contact, however brief it was.

He took a long draught from his bottle and pushed himself up, and she blinked at how tall he actually was as he sauntered over to the band and motioned to one of the guitarists, Hank. They spoke quietly for a while, then Hank raised his head in her direction and cocked it towards Dean in question, and she nodded to confirm it. He shrugged and signalled his group to take five as Dean stepped up the platform and picked up Hank's guitar (a second-hand Fender acoustic, he'd told her once, whatever that meant). He made himself comfortable on one of the high chairs, hooked one leg on its stand, retuned the strings with fingers that proved he really wasn't horsing around, and began to strum experimentally, looking thoughtful for a few chords. Then he set his shoulders and launched into one of those old familiar song she couldn't quite remember the name of – maybe a Kansas song.

A few customers looked up as the first notes were struck; gradually more people took notice as he played on, with conversations petered off into silence as they actually listened. Even she was impressed by his skill, and she was surprised to find she could somehow _feel_ his earnest honesty in the song and how much concentration he put into each chord. She suspected it was sort of a novelty for him, to be able to express himself through the guitar so freely, not having to suppress his real emotions and present only his tough-guy image to the world. He finished the song to a smattering of claps and thumps of bottles on tables.

Old Messy sniffed noisily and blinked blearily as it ended. "Not bad, that boy," he mumbled. He raised his voice, swinging his nearly empty beer glass in Dean's general direction. "Hey boy, sing a song, would'cha? Knock us out if ya' can."

Dean seemed startled by the unexpected request. Clearly hesitating, she watched his lips moved soundlessly as he scanned the crowd, who had by now joined in the request with catcalls and more clapping, until something caught his attention. She looked sharply at where his gaze had landed, fearing it was someone who might be acting rowdy, but instead found her eyes on another young man sitting alone at a secluded corner. She frowned slightly, wondering when he'd come in and noticing the empty table in front of him. From where she stood, she could see he was about the same height as Dean, with a mop of dark hair half-hiding his face. Both he and Dean acted as if they knew one another, judging from the subtle nod of the taller guy and the small smirk that flitted through Dean's face.

Dean cleared his throat a few times and reached out for the mike stand, wincing slightly at the loud electrical screech before quickly setting it in front of him. "Well," he began with a crooked smile and the crowd grew quiet, "didn't really expect me to sing anything tonight, but here goes." With that, the opening riff of another slow rock song filled the bar.

She frowned again in startled surprise as she recognised the tune to 'Soldier of Fortune', a song she'd known by heart, since Deep Purple was one of her favourite bands. Abandoning her half-hearted swiping of the counter top, she took a seat at the register to listen as Dean began to sing, her daughter walking over to sit opposite her.

_**I have often told you stories about the way**_

_**I lived the life of a drifter, waiting for the day**_

_**When I'd take your hand and sing you songs, then maybe you would say**_

**_Come lay with me love me, and I would surely stay_**

_**But I feel I'm growing older**_

_**And the songs that I have sung echo in the distance**_

_**Like the sound of a windmill going round**_

_**I guess I'll always be a soldier of fortune**_

His low, clear voice drifted towards his small audience who listened in respectful silence; even old Messy sat up a bit straighter. She wasn't surprised at how good he sounded – she'd already guessed from his way of talking – but she was taken aback at the lingering wistful regret she could 'hear' emanating from him as he sang. It was as if he was singing his own tale, or at least channelling someone close to him, weaving a story of hardship and loneliness and pain of a man with no place and no one to call home, a man who had once dared to open up to someone and had his heart broken in return. It wasn't the first time she heard it, but it was definitely the first time she heard someone singing it with such heartfelt conviction, and she had to blink back the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes.

As Dean strummed the last note, profound silence filled the area before a lone person – the tall guy she'd noticed – clapped quietly. It was joined by another, and someone thumped his bottle in approval, and the whole bar soon stamped their appreciation, with a voice or two hollering for another performance. Dean merely smiled and ducked his head in thanks at the approval and slipped out of the guitar strap, leaning the instrument against the chair and raising one hand in salute. He clapped Hank's shoulder on his way back to his seat, and she could see the satisfied gleam in his eyes as he sat down.

"Well?" he asked, cocking a brow at her. She smiled and nodded and gave him a thumb's up, glad to sense the initial tingle she felt from Dean was now down to a mere 'hum', as her daughter got off her seat to disappear into the back room.

The tall stranger – who was actually much taller than Dean – made his way towards him as Hank and his boys reclaimed their stage and conversation resumed, slipping easily into the chair next to him even with his height. Dean smirked at him and he hung his head with reddened cheeks, looking quite abashed. Dean chuckled at the response as he waved her over.

"My brother, Sam," he said, clapping a hand on the younger man's shoulder rather enthusiastically, earning a glare from his brother which he dismissed with a cocksure grin. "Bring another one for him."

Sam looked up at her with a small smile – she briefly wondered at how the hell did the two boys got blessed with unusual luck in their genes – and a shake of his head. "It's all right, I don't drink much anyway," he declined politely.

"It's no trouble," she cut him off. "It's on the house." She gestured towards Dean. Sam looked like he was about to say more but wisely kept his mouth shut at his brother's raised brows.

She went back to the register, biting her lips when she was sure they wouldn't see her. Sam had set off another tingling sensation inside her – a low, more intense, _darker_ feeling than Dean's, like a fire that had been raging for a long time smothered under lots of other emotions, making her wonder what exactly were they hiding inside.

Before she even opened her mouth to call Janice, the girl appeared from behind with two chilled bottles and something concealed in one fisted hand. She prudently left them as Janice placed the bottles in front of the boys and slid what looked like a piece of paper under Dean's with a shy smile. She could guess what was written on it and bit back a sigh – Janice was a big girl now, had her own small apartment a few blocks from her mom's, and she could very well take care of herself. She just hoped it was only a fling and nothing more; the brothers didn't look like they would be staying long.

Dean obviously had lots of practise with girls giving their phone numbers out of the blue; he looked up straight into her eyes with a charming smile on his lips and carefully pocketed the paper inside his jacket. Janice blushed at his attention and quickly turned away, nearly knocking into a crate in her haste, though she expertly dodged it at the last second.

Her mother just shook her head as she once again tended to old Messy, telling him quite firmly that no, he can't have another drink until he finally pay off some of his growing tab. When the old fool finally gave up his fight with a drunken laugh and a loud goodbye and wobbled out onto the street to sleep it off at the first place he'd stumbled upon, she glanced once again to the brothers to find their seats empty, having apparently left unnoticed while she was preoccupied. The only evidence of their stay were Dean's empty bottles and a $20 tucked neatly under one of them.

**_snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn_**

"_So..." Dean said casually after a few minutes' drive. He deliberately left the radio off – there was no need to use it as a distraction tonight. "Where've you been?"_

_Sam continued to stare outside the passenger's window, still somewhat ashamed of his earlier walkout. "Just, y'know, walking round a bit... just a couple of blocks," he admitted._

"_Hmm."m Silence enveloped the Impala until they reached their motel. Dean killed the engine, letting the key dangle in the ignition, giving the opportunity for his brother to say whatever he wanted to say for once. _

"_I'm sorry." It was so low, hardly more than a whisper, Dean had to strain his ears to hear it – though he'd figured it would be the words that would come out of Sam's mouth. _

"_... I know." He did; Sam had been apologising a lot lately, ever since Stanford and Jess and their dad and every single case they'd been on for the past countless months._

_Sam was looking at Dean now, his eyes glinting in the light from the motel porch, so Dean couldn't be sure whether it was merely from the light or the tears yet to fall. Not for the first time he'd wished for the power to just make every single hurt vanish from those eyes, to bear everything for his little brother, to see him happy and safe and be _**normal**.

"_I know it's not exactly peachy right now," Sam began, took a deep breath, released it slowly. "Hell, you'd say it's been a _**truckload**_ of shit right now—" Dean snorted at that – Sam knew him well evidently. "—it just... I dunno, got too much tonight, I guess. And that thing we're chasing isn't making it any easier... but it really didn't excuse my storming out like that. And you took the brunt of it, again. And I'm sorry."_

_Dean started to reply, to say it wasn't his fault – __**it never was, was it Dean?**__ – but Sam cut him off. "That song you sing tonight? I know it was partly about us – Dad, me, you – but, I think it's more you than anybody else, isn't it? And I know you're not really pissed off at me... well, mad at me for just taking off, more like – but you _**hide**_ things from me. And every time I tried to pry it away, you wouldn't let me. You protect me, and I'm damn thankful, but it makes me feel useless too, y'know? So... yeah. That's all, I guess."_

_Dean rubbed his face with a sigh. Sam had been pushing this issue since his return, though to him credit this time wasn't as... _**pushy**_... as his other attempts. He knew Sam was right, but he'd conditioned himself for _**years**_ to make light of his own needs, shoving his ambitions and emotions aside to put his family – _**Sam** _– on top of his priority. And he knew Sam knew it, and they both knew there was _**nothing** _Sam could do to change it, so why did he still push it was beyond him. On hindsight, he probably shouldn't have chosen that Deep Purple song to perform tonight._

_So he did what he did best – deflection. "This hunt is totally messing with your brain, Sasquatch," he grinned, messing up his brother's hair to prove his point. Sam half-squeaked, ducking his head away with a death-glare while he chuckled. "You really are too easy sometimes, Sammy."_

"_It's _**Sam**_," the other retorted, and he knew it wouldn't be brought up again – at least, not tonight._

_**snsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsn**_

"_Hey Dean?"_

"_What?"_

"_I didn't expect you to still remember how to play, y'know."_

"_Neither did I."_

"_I was in junior high that time we stayed at Pastor Jim's and he taught you, right?"_

"_Probably. Didn't expect you to actually show up."_

"_Well... saw your note. That place wasn't really that hard to find."_

"_Wha— you just _**walked**_ all the way there?"_

"_No, genius, I took the last bus."_

"_Waitaminute – this tiny town has a _**bus service**_?"_

"_It connects to five other small towns, so yeah, there's a bus service."_

"_And just how did you know that?"_

"_I asked your new friend – Emily? The diner waitress?"_

"_Huh."_

"_So, we ready to go after it again?"_

_Click. Snap. "Let's go hunting, baby."_

"_... sigh..."_


End file.
